I am not going to be all sentimental and smarmy, I promise. However, in the newspaper (yes, they still make them; yes, I still read them) this morning, there was a whole section of "What I'm Thankful For". It was filled with tales of "I'm grateful for the cancer treatment and the nurses and doctors" as well as "Uncle Joe is doing so much better now". Thanksgiving is a time, it has been touted, that we remember the past year and give thanks for the things that make us happy, the things that give us a "glow", the things that point us to something bigger than, well, the things. I am and have been rather ambivalent about Thanksgiving to be perfectly honest, for a very long time. Not because I'm not thankful and not because I don't appreciate all that I have in my life. It's because it seems wrong somehow to put aside one stinking day to do this. It almost smacks of hypocrisy. Let's say thanks during this one day then go back to being cranky about all that we don't have after its over. Many around me are blessed with abundance or really, over abundance. They aren't complaining about stuff they don't have, they are complaining about the stuff they have that doesn't work, or is inadequate or less than perfect. And I do this, too. I'm not pointing any fingers at anyone without the other four pointing at myself.
So here's what I'm going to do. I'm going to begin to say "thank you" each and every day for at least 5 things. This is a personal list, I don't intend to share or even post it. But I am going to do this every day and see what happens to my attitude by next Thanksgiving. The world is a scary, threatening and disjointed place, full of uncertainties. I keep running into things which would push me into the "fear zone" and intimidate me into "woe is me" scenarios. I'm going to try not doing that. And I am thankful honestly for those around me who put up with my weirdness and uncertainties. I am thankful for being able to post stuff and know that those who read it will get what I'm saying and not put me away or shame me for whining. It's a start.
Thursday, November 26, 2015
Monday, November 9, 2015
The Sanctity of Life/Bug version
It occurs to me that I have an interesting attitude about six and eight legged creatures in the house. If they are of the beetle variety, I usually gather them up (unless they are a stink bug-then I tissue them up) and take them outside and set them free. The same is true for moths. I even found a stick bug walking on my dinner plate (much to the dismay of our daughter) the other evening and escorted him outside. I don't really know if it was a him or not, but I just guessed. I'm not overly fond of bugs that jump if they are in the house. Crickets of any kind, black or camel creep me out and my almost always first reaction is smush and ask questions later. But I don't seem to mind grasshoppers. But then they are almost never in the house, so maybe that's the key.
But eight-legged creatures are never welcome in my house. I don't care how tiny or innocuous they appear. They are on the smush list immediately. Do not tell me how beneficial they are. Do not pontificate on their usefulness in keeping the other "bad" bugs at bay. I'm not listening and never will. I began this post sitting at the computer in my kitchen. Next to the thoroughly cluttered desk on which this PC sits is a ledge built in as a pass through. On the pass through is the fish tank, pictures of the grandcats with their owners, a digital clock and the lazy leo (NEVER call it a lazy susan, please) with the salt, pepper and napkins at the ready for any meal. The ledge extends about six inches from the wall and most of the time I don't pay any attention to the fact that it is there because, well, it's just there. But this evening, typing away, making typos and fixing them as I went along, something moved just out of eyesight under there. I peeked. There was a spider walking doggedly along the underside of the ledge, away from me. It wasn't the Shelob behemoth of mythic proportions, nor was it a black widow or brown recluse. And it was running away from me. But you see, I cannot let it go. Because in my mind, it is just a spiderling and its huge parent is just around the corner behind the fridge and if I smush it, the parent will know this is inhospitable territory and will run away. I can't explain this irrational feeling, it just is. So I reached up with a shoe and clobbered the sucker. I made sure not to miss. Which has been known to happen and ensures a dance around the kitchen floor until I find it again. But not this time. Nope, I hit it smack in the center of the sole of the shoe and it was mashed beyond recognition, even to its huge parent waiting with grasping pinchers somewhere nearby.
So now I am typing away again. Content in the spider free space for now. Until another one shows up. Which they will. Because they always do. Eight legs are not welcome.
But eight-legged creatures are never welcome in my house. I don't care how tiny or innocuous they appear. They are on the smush list immediately. Do not tell me how beneficial they are. Do not pontificate on their usefulness in keeping the other "bad" bugs at bay. I'm not listening and never will. I began this post sitting at the computer in my kitchen. Next to the thoroughly cluttered desk on which this PC sits is a ledge built in as a pass through. On the pass through is the fish tank, pictures of the grandcats with their owners, a digital clock and the lazy leo (NEVER call it a lazy susan, please) with the salt, pepper and napkins at the ready for any meal. The ledge extends about six inches from the wall and most of the time I don't pay any attention to the fact that it is there because, well, it's just there. But this evening, typing away, making typos and fixing them as I went along, something moved just out of eyesight under there. I peeked. There was a spider walking doggedly along the underside of the ledge, away from me. It wasn't the Shelob behemoth of mythic proportions, nor was it a black widow or brown recluse. And it was running away from me. But you see, I cannot let it go. Because in my mind, it is just a spiderling and its huge parent is just around the corner behind the fridge and if I smush it, the parent will know this is inhospitable territory and will run away. I can't explain this irrational feeling, it just is. So I reached up with a shoe and clobbered the sucker. I made sure not to miss. Which has been known to happen and ensures a dance around the kitchen floor until I find it again. But not this time. Nope, I hit it smack in the center of the sole of the shoe and it was mashed beyond recognition, even to its huge parent waiting with grasping pinchers somewhere nearby.
So now I am typing away again. Content in the spider free space for now. Until another one shows up. Which they will. Because they always do. Eight legs are not welcome.
Saturday, October 31, 2015
Ma's Birthday
It is our mother's birthday tomorrow. Yep, her birthday. She was born November 1, 1931, which makes her...um...well, you do the math. She wouldn't like it if I put the number up there in black and white anyway. She used to tell me that her father said she was a leftover from Halloween. It sounds like him. But in the church she and I share her birthday comes on All Saints Day. Now I know that my mother is not pure as the driven snow. Because we are both Lutheran we believe that all people are both saint and sinner. But I've come to think of my mother as one of the more saintlier people. Now, I know most people put their mothers on a pedestal and if they don't there's usually a good reason, like she is an ax murderer or something heinous like that. And I also know that we sometimes can't see negative things about our mothers because, well, they are our mothers! But our mom is a pretty good example of what a good person is and does. She prays for people--her prayer list is alike a bajillion people long and she prays for all of them! I can't remember the basic five or six without a cheat sheet. She tries really hard not to speak badly about anyone. Even when you can tell she doesn't want to say something nice about someone, she wiggles around until she comes out with something positive. I just don't have the energy to do this most times. If you're a rat, then you're a rat and no amount of spraying perfume on you is going to make you smell nicer. But Mom does that, at least most of the time. She loves her family: even the extended family that she doesn't see that much, even the family of our dad whom I think she sees something like once or twice a year. And she remembers them and their kids names! It drives me crazy. Our sister can do this, too. I can't remember all these people! I have to concentrate on the ones I see most of the time...I just can't keep those others straight. But she expects me to, 'cause she'll say something about Daisy or "the girls" and I'm supposed to follow along as to who they are and how they are related. It's tiring.
A few years ago I started calling her Ma. The main reason for this is that when I call the house and she answers, even if she can't hear who it is, if I say, MA, she knows it's me. It sort of like a code word between us. I like that. I could use more people in my life who have code words for each other, couldn't you?
So happy birthday MA! Live long and prosper as Spock from Star Trek would say. Have some cake and lots of ice cream. And say an extra prayer that you will be with us for another 100 years. Because I can't imagine an All Saints Day without my favorite Saint. Saint Ma.
A few years ago I started calling her Ma. The main reason for this is that when I call the house and she answers, even if she can't hear who it is, if I say, MA, she knows it's me. It sort of like a code word between us. I like that. I could use more people in my life who have code words for each other, couldn't you?
So happy birthday MA! Live long and prosper as Spock from Star Trek would say. Have some cake and lots of ice cream. And say an extra prayer that you will be with us for another 100 years. Because I can't imagine an All Saints Day without my favorite Saint. Saint Ma.
Saturday, October 24, 2015
I Guess I Don't Understand
Things happen. I haven't lived to be 61 without being aware that things happen. Sometimes they are good things, sometimes they are bad. Sometimes you anticipate them and sometimes there is no way to anticipate things. Recently, in my sphere I have heard and seen some pretty awful things. Yeah, I live in the bubble, but these things outside the bubble? Well, they pushed into the breathing space here and made some intense and sad conversations happen amongst us. Having said that, I am not personally involved with those awful things. They didn't happen to my immediate circle of family and friends (thank goodness) and so I'm at least one- maybe two steps outside of the impact circle. But of late, I have been surrounded with folks who are in no way entitled to comment, commenting on what they would do, how they would handle such and such and how the "powers that be" are just going about it all wrong. Really? And these people would know this...how? There are circumstances beyond your ken, people. Things that happen outside of your knowledge base. You cannot proclaim you would do this or make this happen without being privy to those things. So quit pontificating okay? Quit saying, the authorities aren't doing enough or the government isn't doing enough (okay, maybe they aren't), the administration is to blame for not handling this well. Until you are walking in some people's moccasins, you have no right to rant, rail and rave. None. So get a life, you whiners and nay-sayers. Find something else to talk about and complain about. Fix your own lives why don't you. But leave those poor souls struggling with their griefs and despairs out of your "I know better" pontificating. Thanks, I needed to get that off my chest.
Monday, October 12, 2015
A Plethora of Thoughts
Sometimes writing is so easy, it's scary. It flows out of the eyes, the ears, the very pores. You can't seem to stop it up. And sometimes, I'm reminded of having to take certain medications to get the "natural occurrences" of the bodily functions--well--occurring naturally. I've been stopped up for some time now. Writing didn't seem to be something I wanted to do. I would see the icon for my blog and think, "yeah, I'll get to that." But I didn't really want to. It's hard to believe I would ever feel that way, writing feels like a part of my inner self. But there you have it.
The urge is here today, again, for whatever reason. The words are coming out and pouring across the page willy-nilly. I'm spelling things wrong, which usually indicates that I'm concentrating on getting the words down as opposed to correctly. This is also an indication that writing is flowing again. Because when you're in the "zone" you don't care so much that it's spelled right, just that it's there, on the page, well, on the computer, those little black marks filling up the white space.
I think what started the flow today was a series of unrelated events. I woke up at 5--an ungodly hour for me. I sleep as late as I can each day--I just dislike mornings so much, at first. And now, especially, when it's dark out and the crickets don't get how it's almost morning, and the guy delivering the newspaper stops outside at the curb with his radio blasting, I mean, I just wished mornings started later. So I popped out of bed at five, and was downstairs getting ready for work a whole hour earlier than usual. Then in work, although I like to believe I'm somewhat efficient, I was super-efficient. I was on top of phone calls, on top of emails, filing, writing notes, calling and following up. My office mate got caught up in a myriad of dramas that fortunately didn't have anything to do with me! A good day all around. I virtuously walked back to work after going home for lunch, then took the long way home instead of just taking the most direct route. Since stopping the gym, this was a very good thing for me to do. Later, after dinner, my Mom called. She shared some really depressing news, then tried to work around the fact that this was really the only reason she called, to share this bit of morose-ness. I didn't blame her for telling me. But I know how she thinks and I'm sure she felt guilty and tried to make believe she really just wanted to know how my day was. I knew better and so did she. We do this dance frequently, she pretending there are other reasons for calling besides sharing bad, scary or depressing news. It's fine actually that she does this. She keeps in touch with far more people than I do and I would never know half this stuff if she didn't call me. But at the end of the day, it was just a quirky thing, ya know?
So I will be going to bed soon; hopefully to sleep until at least six. I'll probably be more sluggish at work tomorrow and not quite on top of the world. There is a meeting I'm half not wanting to go to tomorrow night which will cap off whatever tomorrow brings. And such is life.
We are full of ups and downs. Highs and lows. We rest our weary heads on our pillows at night, hoping that tomorrow when we wake up (if we wake up--now there's a depressing thought), we will go through the new day meeting whatever challenges we face either by boldly facing them or running away and hiding in our cubicles. And on the days when I want to write, I do. And on the days I don't or can't or need some medicine to help me out, well, then, I write then, too, but not always.
The urge is here today, again, for whatever reason. The words are coming out and pouring across the page willy-nilly. I'm spelling things wrong, which usually indicates that I'm concentrating on getting the words down as opposed to correctly. This is also an indication that writing is flowing again. Because when you're in the "zone" you don't care so much that it's spelled right, just that it's there, on the page, well, on the computer, those little black marks filling up the white space.
I think what started the flow today was a series of unrelated events. I woke up at 5--an ungodly hour for me. I sleep as late as I can each day--I just dislike mornings so much, at first. And now, especially, when it's dark out and the crickets don't get how it's almost morning, and the guy delivering the newspaper stops outside at the curb with his radio blasting, I mean, I just wished mornings started later. So I popped out of bed at five, and was downstairs getting ready for work a whole hour earlier than usual. Then in work, although I like to believe I'm somewhat efficient, I was super-efficient. I was on top of phone calls, on top of emails, filing, writing notes, calling and following up. My office mate got caught up in a myriad of dramas that fortunately didn't have anything to do with me! A good day all around. I virtuously walked back to work after going home for lunch, then took the long way home instead of just taking the most direct route. Since stopping the gym, this was a very good thing for me to do. Later, after dinner, my Mom called. She shared some really depressing news, then tried to work around the fact that this was really the only reason she called, to share this bit of morose-ness. I didn't blame her for telling me. But I know how she thinks and I'm sure she felt guilty and tried to make believe she really just wanted to know how my day was. I knew better and so did she. We do this dance frequently, she pretending there are other reasons for calling besides sharing bad, scary or depressing news. It's fine actually that she does this. She keeps in touch with far more people than I do and I would never know half this stuff if she didn't call me. But at the end of the day, it was just a quirky thing, ya know?
So I will be going to bed soon; hopefully to sleep until at least six. I'll probably be more sluggish at work tomorrow and not quite on top of the world. There is a meeting I'm half not wanting to go to tomorrow night which will cap off whatever tomorrow brings. And such is life.
We are full of ups and downs. Highs and lows. We rest our weary heads on our pillows at night, hoping that tomorrow when we wake up (if we wake up--now there's a depressing thought), we will go through the new day meeting whatever challenges we face either by boldly facing them or running away and hiding in our cubicles. And on the days when I want to write, I do. And on the days I don't or can't or need some medicine to help me out, well, then, I write then, too, but not always.
Tuesday, August 25, 2015
Another Year Older, for both of us
Every year at about this time, I post something about the son. His birthday is coming up and I always remember and recall things from his childhood; his playing with the old yogurt cups in the kitchen as I made dinner. His drumming on the plastic tubs in the living room with his dad and sister as they played some discordant marching song.
He is so far away sometimes. Not just geographically, which of course, he is. But I don't get the day to day interactions, the little asides, the small smiles. I was suddenly cognizant of the fact that I hadn't shared his birthday with him since when he went away to college. The new semester always began before his birthday--had usually just started--so coming home wasn't an option. I haven't seen our son for his birthday for over ten years. It really got me today as I mailed his card and present. It is not a tragedy, I realize that. There are more earth shattering and mind bending things that are happening in the world today. But in my little corner, I came to the realization that he's ambled through almost half as many birthdays without the family as with them. I got all choked up (as I'm sure my family would say I am wont to do). Birthdays are special to my way of thinking. I have always loved celebrating them with others and for others. But he hasn't been home to celebrate with us for a very long time. I'm sure he has his own rituals now. He is doing something really cool for his birthday this year with his friends. But his family isn't sitting around the table with him having his "favorite" dinner nor eating that artery hardening cake we used to get for him.
I'm not going to dwell on this fact anymore, though. I'm made of sterner stuff. I will step out and go to work as usual on his birthday. One foot in front of the other. One hour passing by another until the day is done. Wishing for a candle to blow out in his honor. I miss him sometimes too much I guess. Happy Birthday, son. Love you lots.
He is so far away sometimes. Not just geographically, which of course, he is. But I don't get the day to day interactions, the little asides, the small smiles. I was suddenly cognizant of the fact that I hadn't shared his birthday with him since when he went away to college. The new semester always began before his birthday--had usually just started--so coming home wasn't an option. I haven't seen our son for his birthday for over ten years. It really got me today as I mailed his card and present. It is not a tragedy, I realize that. There are more earth shattering and mind bending things that are happening in the world today. But in my little corner, I came to the realization that he's ambled through almost half as many birthdays without the family as with them. I got all choked up (as I'm sure my family would say I am wont to do). Birthdays are special to my way of thinking. I have always loved celebrating them with others and for others. But he hasn't been home to celebrate with us for a very long time. I'm sure he has his own rituals now. He is doing something really cool for his birthday this year with his friends. But his family isn't sitting around the table with him having his "favorite" dinner nor eating that artery hardening cake we used to get for him.
I'm not going to dwell on this fact anymore, though. I'm made of sterner stuff. I will step out and go to work as usual on his birthday. One foot in front of the other. One hour passing by another until the day is done. Wishing for a candle to blow out in his honor. I miss him sometimes too much I guess. Happy Birthday, son. Love you lots.
Saturday, August 8, 2015
Sometimes it Gets You, Right Here
Preservation Hall Jazz Band. Look it up, I'll wait...
This is what it says on its site:
New Orleans’ Preservation Hall was established in 1961 to honor one of America’s truest art forms – Traditional New Orleans Jazz. Operating as a music venue, a touring band, and a non-profit organization, Preservation Hall continues its mission today as a cornerstone of New Orleans music and culture.
This is what it says on its site:
New Orleans’ Preservation Hall was established in 1961 to honor one of America’s truest art forms – Traditional New Orleans Jazz. Operating as a music venue, a touring band, and a non-profit organization, Preservation Hall continues its mission today as a cornerstone of New Orleans music and culture.
Situated in the heart of the French Quarter on St. Peter Street, the Preservation Hall venue presents intimate, acoustic New Orleans Jazz concerts over 350 nights a year featuring ensembles from a current collective of 100+ local master practitioners. On any given night, audiences bear joyful witness to the evolution of this venerable and living tradition.
I've known about this place since like, forever. I've never visited New Orleans, but our dad was a huge fan. Knew the names of the famous people who played there, loved the music. It was a place he spoke of in that whispered excited voice of his, whenever he discussed music of his heart. I'm not sure, but it seems like he owned one recording of the band as he knew it. I don't recall listening to it, just knowing about it or seeing the cover, something in sepia tones and old, black guys on the cover. It was just another kind of music he listened to. I appreciated that jazz was a music he liked. But scat and some other forms just weren't my thing, so I guess I sort of dismissed it.
Fast forward to today. Our son, a music lover, composer, joyful participant in all things melodious and not so much had ventured to New Orleans as part of one of those "new-fangled" bachelor destination parties. He is a member of the bridal party and so he went. When he called to speak of various and sundry things, we asked how the "bachelor party" way down south went. He spoke of the food and the drink and the camaraderie of young men enjoying themselves together in a new place. But he then began to speak of the vibe of New Orleans. "There's music everywhere," he said. "I've never been in a place where music happened all over, it was part of the fabric of the place." And then he told us of visiting St. Peter Street. The temperature was hot and steamy. But it was like no other place he had ever been. It was called Preservation Hall. I hadn't heard those words together in a very, very long time. And my throat closed up and my eyes watered. And I knew my dad was thrilled beyond anything that his grandson had visited the land of clarinets, drums and trumpets slowly ambling across a melody while bodies swayed and feet thumped to the rhythms of the players. How could I explain the thrill of hearing him say he was there? Well, his birthday is coming up, but he just gave me the best present I ever got this year. He walked in the steps of Dixieland and heard the blues and jazz the way they were meant to be played by the band that knows how to play them. His granddad in heaven is smiling to beat the band...any band...anywhere.
Monday, July 27, 2015
Ramblings and Rumblings
It's not going well and yet it's not really bad either. The summer has morphed into a mish-mosh of empty days pinged occasionally by good ones. The day after day after day of working and coming home and going to the gym and attending yet another church meeting, going to sleep and starting it all over again is numbing. I haven't written anything for more than a month. And it didn't feel like I was missing anything until I looked at the last post and realized, "holy cow, it's been over a month!" The mundaness is numbing actually. The getting up, putting one foot in front of the other and carrying on is not what I wish for, but if you were to ask what I wish for, I couldn't answer that either. I never had a "grand plan". Never really thought I would do with myself when I grew up. Didn't even really think about growing up. It just happened. As has most of the things in my life. They just happened. Do most people have "plans"? Do other people have stuff all figured out in advance? Am I the minority here? Summer is probably the worst time for me for a bunch of reasons. I'm annoyed at myself for frittering away some precious vacation days with time off and no specified destination or plans in mind. But, then we've just established, that plans don't figure in my view of things. Are there things I want to accomplish? Not that I'm aware of. Perhaps I need a life coach to show me the road to "self-fulfillment" or enlightenment or well, whatever. Perhaps I need a psychiatrist. I know a few people who love me who would say I've probably needed one of those for quite a while (I'm grinning as I write that). Perhaps I need to stop concentrating so hard on myself and get out of my own head. Which is probably what I need to do in the most immediate future. So I will sign off for now and do something worldly, unselfish and philanthropic. Or maybe I'll just go in the living room and read on the iPad. It's a long summer. And it's not over yet.
Wednesday, June 10, 2015
Song For a Small Town
My sister and I visited the town we grew up in a few days ago. It was a sentimental journey mostly. We parked in front of the old homestead and proceeded to walk around the town talking of things past and things present, things remembered and things hoped for. On the anniversary of our father's death, we usually sit and reminisce individually without the other siblings. This felt good. I wished the brothers had been there. But such is life.
Actually though, this isn't a post about the day, as lovely as it was. I was standing in the kitchen of my home this evening admiring the weather for a change. It wasn't too hot, nor too humid--a rarity in this state. And I was wondering about someone I know who lives in our old hometown now. He and his partner live near a friend's house that we frequented when growing up. And I wondered...did he know about the wonderful solitude of walking along the river on a night like this, skipping stones and contemplating life's mysteries? Would he sit on the wall or perhaps one of the newer benches and take in the river breeze bringing with it the strange "river" smell that accompanies this body of water? Will he stroll the small side streets, feeling the evening breeze lift the collar of his shirt (he shaves his head, so no hair to ruffle), and marvel at the quietness, the peaceful pace of the place I used to call home? I shall have to ask him sometime. I hope he does. I hope he comes to find a way of life somehow missed by the slipstream of the urban jungle. And I hope he skips a few stones and finds some peace there as well on a night just made for an evening stroll.
Actually though, this isn't a post about the day, as lovely as it was. I was standing in the kitchen of my home this evening admiring the weather for a change. It wasn't too hot, nor too humid--a rarity in this state. And I was wondering about someone I know who lives in our old hometown now. He and his partner live near a friend's house that we frequented when growing up. And I wondered...did he know about the wonderful solitude of walking along the river on a night like this, skipping stones and contemplating life's mysteries? Would he sit on the wall or perhaps one of the newer benches and take in the river breeze bringing with it the strange "river" smell that accompanies this body of water? Will he stroll the small side streets, feeling the evening breeze lift the collar of his shirt (he shaves his head, so no hair to ruffle), and marvel at the quietness, the peaceful pace of the place I used to call home? I shall have to ask him sometime. I hope he does. I hope he comes to find a way of life somehow missed by the slipstream of the urban jungle. And I hope he skips a few stones and finds some peace there as well on a night just made for an evening stroll.
Tuesday, May 26, 2015
Witnessing Out Loud
i teach a Sunday School class of adults. Each Sunday we look at the gospel reading and sort of dissect it, looking for nuances and meaning that could be obvious, but then again might not be. In discussion this week, I brought up he idea of being a witness to an event and asked those in the class to think of a happy event they could share that they witnessed themselves, so they could relate to us what this event was like. As per usual, the group got into it and related moments of heart thumping observations of nature's grandeur as well as minute detail of everyday events highlighting their joy. I don't always share what I'm thinking during these discussions as I don't want to lead them one way or another. But today, for some reason I thought to tell them of one of my most wonderful experiences of my life. I say one of, not the greatest (although it was certainly great), nor putting it on a scale comparing it to others. It just came to me like this:
The first time I was pregnant I was nervous. I didn't like being pregnant, didn't feel the "glow" so many others speak of, and quite frankly, was thinking I knew nothing of babies so how was I going to do "this" (this being motherhood). My mother knew very little of the delivery of her children as it was the norm when we were born to "knock the mother out" so she had no recollection of our births. I was anxious. I had been informed that my due date was Mother's Day, but when June 11th rolled around and the baby showed no signs of wanting to come forth, the doctor informed me that we would need to do a stress test. The night after that, my water broke and after getting to the hospital, they informed me that the baby was in the breech position, which at the time made a C-section the way to go. If I wasn't nervous before, I was suddenly petrified. My hubby is not good with the sight of blood, so I assumed he would "sit this one out," but he surprised me and sat with me the whole time!
I know, I know, people who have children talk about the miracle of new life, the combining of sperm and egg and strands of DNA making a whole new individual, and yada, yada, yada. But see, it never happened to me before! It was miraculous. It was not like anything else in the whole world. It was better than Christmas. It was better than birthdays (and I love birthdays). It was a gift from God. Our daughter, when she was laid in my arms was a gift that was so generous and huge, I could never repay the Almighty for it. She was and is a piece of my heart. No one, with the exception of the son, could bring such heart-bursting joy, and such intensity of feeling as that whole brand new life come into being that day 33 years ago. A new creation was born, not just a daughter, but a mom as well.
And as her birthday come up soon, I just thought I could share just a little of what was one of my greatest moments. Happy birthday, Sus!
The first time I was pregnant I was nervous. I didn't like being pregnant, didn't feel the "glow" so many others speak of, and quite frankly, was thinking I knew nothing of babies so how was I going to do "this" (this being motherhood). My mother knew very little of the delivery of her children as it was the norm when we were born to "knock the mother out" so she had no recollection of our births. I was anxious. I had been informed that my due date was Mother's Day, but when June 11th rolled around and the baby showed no signs of wanting to come forth, the doctor informed me that we would need to do a stress test. The night after that, my water broke and after getting to the hospital, they informed me that the baby was in the breech position, which at the time made a C-section the way to go. If I wasn't nervous before, I was suddenly petrified. My hubby is not good with the sight of blood, so I assumed he would "sit this one out," but he surprised me and sat with me the whole time!
I know, I know, people who have children talk about the miracle of new life, the combining of sperm and egg and strands of DNA making a whole new individual, and yada, yada, yada. But see, it never happened to me before! It was miraculous. It was not like anything else in the whole world. It was better than Christmas. It was better than birthdays (and I love birthdays). It was a gift from God. Our daughter, when she was laid in my arms was a gift that was so generous and huge, I could never repay the Almighty for it. She was and is a piece of my heart. No one, with the exception of the son, could bring such heart-bursting joy, and such intensity of feeling as that whole brand new life come into being that day 33 years ago. A new creation was born, not just a daughter, but a mom as well.
And as her birthday come up soon, I just thought I could share just a little of what was one of my greatest moments. Happy birthday, Sus!
Saturday, May 16, 2015
The Giant Green Lady
"What difference if I hail,
From North or South?
Or from the East or West?
My heart is filled with love
For all of these.
I only know I swell with pride
And deep within my breast,
I thrill to see Old Glory paint the breeze."
I remember hearing a rendition of This Is My Country, sung by the Army band (or was it the Air Force? Or the Marines?--well, some branch of the military when it was all male voices anyway), and feeling an upswell of emotion. I don't think I'm sloppily patriotic. I see the things my country does or at least some of its people and I am appalled. But it is such a big place, America. It has room for both good and bad, rich and poor, noble and ignoble. It has so much. And it symbolizes so much as well. What brought this on, you are probably asking. Or to poke fun at my blog readership, is anybody asking?
Anyway, hubby and I took a day trip to see Ellis Island and the Statue of Liberty. I've never been there although it is only a couple of hours away. I've been to New York City a bunch of times and for heaven's sake, it's just across the river! But for one reason or another, neither one of us had been. We bought tickets on line, picked a time to take a tour and arrived with five minutes to spare. You have to stand in line to be screened, similar to the airport. As you stand in line you can look to your right and see the tall green lady with the uplifted arm and she seems not as big as you had imagined. To the left of the screening tent you see an incongruous sight, though. The shell of the railroad tracks which took those millions of immigrants to their destinations is there surrounded by chain link fence. A massive building which I assume is the place where currency was exchanged, train schedules were posted and the final leg of the long, long journey was at hand. I only assume as it was being refurbished and we only had so much time so we couldn't check it out. The incongruity though, was the New York City skyline immediately across the water from this place. Rising from the Hudson, jagged buildings and blocks of concrete straining up, the image of modern city life juxtaposed with the place of history--where we came from--where we are going? I don't know. It just struck me, especially upon seeing the new skyscraper place where the Twin Towers used to be.
You take a ferry to Ellis Island, the place where all immigrants were "processed". It is a massive U shaped set of structures. The building on the right was the first stop where you were determined to be either accepted or rejected into the new land. If rejected, we learned, the ship who transported you here had to take you back where you first boarded. It wasn't an option, that was the way it worked. The conditions of the voyage didn't' make going back a particularly encouraging prospect. The buildings on the left were the dormitories, hospital, and other facilities if there was a wait for your processing. Hubby and I kept asking ourselves, "what would that have been like?" Coming to a new place where no one spoke your language, where you frequently didn't have any relatives or anyone to meet you. You didn't know how you would make a living, or even where you would live. That sense of bewilderment overridden by the sense of hope that this place could be the start of a new life. I can't imagine it, really. I tried all day, but it just seems too big, too different from my life now.
From North or South?
Or from the East or West?
My heart is filled with love
For all of these.
I only know I swell with pride
And deep within my breast,
I thrill to see Old Glory paint the breeze."
I remember hearing a rendition of This Is My Country, sung by the Army band (or was it the Air Force? Or the Marines?--well, some branch of the military when it was all male voices anyway), and feeling an upswell of emotion. I don't think I'm sloppily patriotic. I see the things my country does or at least some of its people and I am appalled. But it is such a big place, America. It has room for both good and bad, rich and poor, noble and ignoble. It has so much. And it symbolizes so much as well. What brought this on, you are probably asking. Or to poke fun at my blog readership, is anybody asking?
Anyway, hubby and I took a day trip to see Ellis Island and the Statue of Liberty. I've never been there although it is only a couple of hours away. I've been to New York City a bunch of times and for heaven's sake, it's just across the river! But for one reason or another, neither one of us had been. We bought tickets on line, picked a time to take a tour and arrived with five minutes to spare. You have to stand in line to be screened, similar to the airport. As you stand in line you can look to your right and see the tall green lady with the uplifted arm and she seems not as big as you had imagined. To the left of the screening tent you see an incongruous sight, though. The shell of the railroad tracks which took those millions of immigrants to their destinations is there surrounded by chain link fence. A massive building which I assume is the place where currency was exchanged, train schedules were posted and the final leg of the long, long journey was at hand. I only assume as it was being refurbished and we only had so much time so we couldn't check it out. The incongruity though, was the New York City skyline immediately across the water from this place. Rising from the Hudson, jagged buildings and blocks of concrete straining up, the image of modern city life juxtaposed with the place of history--where we came from--where we are going? I don't know. It just struck me, especially upon seeing the new skyscraper place where the Twin Towers used to be.
You take a ferry to Ellis Island, the place where all immigrants were "processed". It is a massive U shaped set of structures. The building on the right was the first stop where you were determined to be either accepted or rejected into the new land. If rejected, we learned, the ship who transported you here had to take you back where you first boarded. It wasn't an option, that was the way it worked. The conditions of the voyage didn't' make going back a particularly encouraging prospect. The buildings on the left were the dormitories, hospital, and other facilities if there was a wait for your processing. Hubby and I kept asking ourselves, "what would that have been like?" Coming to a new place where no one spoke your language, where you frequently didn't have any relatives or anyone to meet you. You didn't know how you would make a living, or even where you would live. That sense of bewilderment overridden by the sense of hope that this place could be the start of a new life. I can't imagine it, really. I tried all day, but it just seems too big, too different from my life now.
Sunday, April 19, 2015
Where Did That Come From?
Our son works in the music industry. He can play a keyboard, the drums and the guitar. He can hear nuances in chords, refrains and other musical things that I never knew existed. Where did this ability come from? His father, the hubby I refer to often here, is fond of an eclectic mix of musical styles. He can strum a guitar, but I can't say he's gifted necessarily. I certainly don't have any talent in this area. Well, I can play "My Country 'Tis of Thee," one fingered on a piano but I don't really think this counts. So where did this come from? This gift of music? I don't know. But I can't imagine him without it, that's for sure!
Thursday, March 5, 2015
A New Phen-er-uh-Experience
We are having a snow day in the bubble. It's pretty, but a pain to don all the outside stuff to shovel it around. But as long as I'm inside, I can appreciate it's beauty. As long as the power holds out!
The daughter and son-in-law work in school districts in the same state and they have a snow day as well. And with the hubby retired, well, its one big happy family! We've been sending messages back and forth all day, via texts and emails. Sharing stories, kidding around about things. Its really a nice experience. Communicating across the miles electronically. Well, you can scoff, you've been doing that for ages. I know, I know. But for some reason today, it just really feels good to be able to share funny videos and asides and goofy sayings, almost as if they were here and sitting around the table. And I guess there's the crux of the thought. I wish we were all sitting around the table. Even the son, so far away, is as close as the text message on the phone. Or even Facetime, if he wasn't working, which he is.
As that Lincoln car commercial with MM says, "I just liked it."
By the way, the title is one of those words I can never seem to spell correctly...phenomenon. I had to look it up to do that and I wanted to get the words down before they left me.
The daughter and son-in-law work in school districts in the same state and they have a snow day as well. And with the hubby retired, well, its one big happy family! We've been sending messages back and forth all day, via texts and emails. Sharing stories, kidding around about things. Its really a nice experience. Communicating across the miles electronically. Well, you can scoff, you've been doing that for ages. I know, I know. But for some reason today, it just really feels good to be able to share funny videos and asides and goofy sayings, almost as if they were here and sitting around the table. And I guess there's the crux of the thought. I wish we were all sitting around the table. Even the son, so far away, is as close as the text message on the phone. Or even Facetime, if he wasn't working, which he is.
As that Lincoln car commercial with MM says, "I just liked it."
By the way, the title is one of those words I can never seem to spell correctly...phenomenon. I had to look it up to do that and I wanted to get the words down before they left me.
Saturday, February 28, 2015
The Gray Days of Winter
the cold slips under the door
And steals through the window sills.
The sun may be out, but no
Warmth permeates the air
Smoky, frosty breaths escape the hoods
And scarves wound around triple strength.
Snow is predicted
As is sleet and rain
But not hail-thank goodness
Although it wouldn't really make
Much difference to the
Bundled masses trudging the streets.
Winter is not really that much
Longer than say, Spring
But it's hoary attitude makes
It seem longer and darker
And grayer and colder and...
And steals through the window sills.
The sun may be out, but no
Warmth permeates the air
Smoky, frosty breaths escape the hoods
And scarves wound around triple strength.
Snow is predicted
As is sleet and rain
But not hail-thank goodness
Although it wouldn't really make
Much difference to the
Bundled masses trudging the streets.
Winter is not really that much
Longer than say, Spring
But it's hoary attitude makes
It seem longer and darker
And grayer and colder and...
Tuesday, February 24, 2015
Warmth and Nodding Off
I was a busy day today. Lots of emails to be answered. Phone calls to take and make. People coming in and going out. Before I knew it, it was afternoon. I have a small space heater at my desk and it punked out on me. So I was cold most of the day. The sweater on my chair wasn't enough. When I got home I had to go out again to the gym. Then home again and dinner. By the time I settled down to eat I was still cold. This winter has felt colder than others. Is it truly colder? I don't know, it just seems that way. I wrapped myself in a small lap blanket thingee while I ate dinner. But I still feel chilled. In a little bit I'm going to go upstairs, turn in the bed warmer and finally, finally get warm and toasty. And then, as is my wont, I will nod off while reading some romantic novel.
Only to get up at 6 and do it all again tomorrow. Heavy sigh. I know winter will end eventually, I just wish it would end soon.
Only to get up at 6 and do it all again tomorrow. Heavy sigh. I know winter will end eventually, I just wish it would end soon.
Wednesday, February 18, 2015
A Day Off?
So I took a random day off from work. I didn't have any specific plans for the day and was kind of looking forward to sleeping late and putzing around the house without an agenda. Because of my job, however, I'm never far from my email (work or regular), but particularly on those days I take off, my work email demands my time somewhat as people are prone to contact just me instead of my department. I must therefore forward their emails on to the appropriate people so that their needs are met. It's something I've gotten used to doing and it isn't necessarily a problem. At least not to me, I'm home after all.
But on this particular day, after checking emails and forwarding the ones that needed attention, I received one that seemed to need a little more research. I went to my home computer, fired it up, realized it had been some time since I updated things on it, updated them, cleaned up the workspace a little. Rearranged the notes I leave to myself. Changed the date on the flip calendar--re-read a few of the quotes on the days previous to that one. Saw the accumulated dust on the poor hard drive on the floor, got out the small vacuum to take care of that and then settled down to take care of the problem on email. I looked up to see what time it was...10:00! It was two hours later! How could doing those minute, tedious tidying up things have taken two hours?? Well, I reasoned, fine, it was still morning and the day still stretched ahead of me. I pulled up the email, then opened up a web browser and got to work. Sort of. I needed to research some area businesses to firm up my response to the email, so I punched in a name or two. I then saw some intriguing sites that practically screamed for my attention. So I went to them. Anyone who has sat at the computer and tried straight researching for something will doubtless know what I'm talking about when I say, I emerged from the world of internet two hours later almost completely off topic, but full of new and interesting sites to read, watch and peruse when I had down time. Except it was now afternoon and I still hadn't addressed the email problem!
With firm resolve, I went into the kitchen and made myself a sandwich. I returned to the keyboard, refreshed and renewed. I jotted down some information that I had gotten before being sidetracked. But I needed to look a little further for some details which would truly address the emailers concerns. Back to the internet I went, but cautiously this time. I found some sites, found some information, jotted it down and strictly adhered to only the information needed. I backed away slowly from the sites which I knew would ensnare me and finally sat down and wrote a clear and concise response to the email from the morning. Only to have the person I responded to reply that they had found out the information about an hour after they emailed me and not to worry, "but thanks for the response."
In the future, I think I will only forward the emails which need to be forwarded and try to remember to put an away message on my account (not that everyone reads these things!) for the times in the future when taking a day off seems like a good idea.
But on this particular day, after checking emails and forwarding the ones that needed attention, I received one that seemed to need a little more research. I went to my home computer, fired it up, realized it had been some time since I updated things on it, updated them, cleaned up the workspace a little. Rearranged the notes I leave to myself. Changed the date on the flip calendar--re-read a few of the quotes on the days previous to that one. Saw the accumulated dust on the poor hard drive on the floor, got out the small vacuum to take care of that and then settled down to take care of the problem on email. I looked up to see what time it was...10:00! It was two hours later! How could doing those minute, tedious tidying up things have taken two hours?? Well, I reasoned, fine, it was still morning and the day still stretched ahead of me. I pulled up the email, then opened up a web browser and got to work. Sort of. I needed to research some area businesses to firm up my response to the email, so I punched in a name or two. I then saw some intriguing sites that practically screamed for my attention. So I went to them. Anyone who has sat at the computer and tried straight researching for something will doubtless know what I'm talking about when I say, I emerged from the world of internet two hours later almost completely off topic, but full of new and interesting sites to read, watch and peruse when I had down time. Except it was now afternoon and I still hadn't addressed the email problem!
With firm resolve, I went into the kitchen and made myself a sandwich. I returned to the keyboard, refreshed and renewed. I jotted down some information that I had gotten before being sidetracked. But I needed to look a little further for some details which would truly address the emailers concerns. Back to the internet I went, but cautiously this time. I found some sites, found some information, jotted it down and strictly adhered to only the information needed. I backed away slowly from the sites which I knew would ensnare me and finally sat down and wrote a clear and concise response to the email from the morning. Only to have the person I responded to reply that they had found out the information about an hour after they emailed me and not to worry, "but thanks for the response."
In the future, I think I will only forward the emails which need to be forwarded and try to remember to put an away message on my account (not that everyone reads these things!) for the times in the future when taking a day off seems like a good idea.
Monday, February 16, 2015
Ice and Snow
It's really cold here in the bubble these past few days. Well, it's really cold in the general part of the ol' US where we reside. In the morning there is frost on the window. Some windows, like the ones in the bathroom are completely covered in frost. I noticed the cold especially this evening as I sat in a committee meeting. The cold from the room seemed to creep up my pantleg and hover at the top of my socks. By the time the meeting was done, I don't think I could feel my toes and the ride home didn't really give the car enough time to warm up. It had snowed a couple of days ago and the plows sort of packed it down on the street surface, so it was interesting turning corners, never really sure if the tires were going to grab or not. I am not a fan of this weather and probably never will be.
And yet, tomorrow morning when I don't have to get up and go to work, when the snow will be fresh and white on the trees, I like it. When the sound is muffled from the snow blanketed over the area, I am comforted. Of course, I will be inside and not out in it. But it is pretty and quiet and restful. So its's not really true that I'm not a fan of this weather. Perhaps I just enjoy looking at it, as opposed to feeling it.
And yet, tomorrow morning when I don't have to get up and go to work, when the snow will be fresh and white on the trees, I like it. When the sound is muffled from the snow blanketed over the area, I am comforted. Of course, I will be inside and not out in it. But it is pretty and quiet and restful. So its's not really true that I'm not a fan of this weather. Perhaps I just enjoy looking at it, as opposed to feeling it.
Monday, February 9, 2015
Just Observing
In the last few days, I have received news about people I love. There are challenges in their lives, some of them interesting (how DO you fit the sofa through that door?) and some of them scary--forcing me to look outside of myself. I've been rather self-centered lately, working through grief can do that to you. But hearing about these various things my loved ones are facing reminds me that everyone in life must face things they would rather not. Everyone, if they are living at all, has to meet the things life throws at them either deciding to overcome them or rolling over to let time and circumstance have their way. My grief, their physical maladies, his logistics, her incomprehension are all part of breathing in and breathing out each day. We don't always see that around us as we stumble around, hands outstretched in the dark hallway. But it is true nonetheless. I could spout scripture now, but I think I'll ponder the world and its workings a little longer. And maybe I can come out of myself a little bit more tomorrow.
Thursday, February 5, 2015
A Sudden Knowledge of Self
Tonight the hubby and I ventured out into the bitter, blowing winds to a class held at the local high school. The blurb written up in the Adult School brochure promised us a wealth of information about retirement, Medicare, Social Security and other white or gray-haired nuggets needed for the "golden years." It did not deliver. The classroom was overheated, which could have been a blessing except the presenters were less than stellar, so nodding off began to look like a comfortable alternative to listening to them. But I, being me, began to observe the others in the room.
There was a woman with a largish bandage on her brow, a guy with a baseball hat pulled down to his wire framed glasses, a portly couple both wearing matching flannel shirts. In one corner of the room I spied a woman whose children attended nursery school with my oldest. Wow! I hadn't seen her in years! And in another corner of the room was a woman who used to live down the street from us. She still looked the same. And after the class when we hugged, she said I looked the same, too.
And I got to thinking...retirement, growing older...usually means moving out of the family home you've occupied for a number of years. I frequently lament to hubby that our house is too big! I can't keep it clean anymore. I have other things I like to do with my time. Well, if I'm honest, I've always had other things I've wanted to do besides clean; but it seems more of an onerous task these days. And then I truly thought tonight about what it would mean to leave the bubble. There are people who are part of the scenery of our lives here. The old man and old lady who have walked a sucession of dogs through rain, sleet, snow and hurricanes. The guy with the gray ponytail who wears a trench coat in the dead of summer and frequently speaks out loud to himself. And all those parents of all those kids whom I have talked, laughed and cried with as their children marched through elementary then high school. I will see kids returned from college who remember me at the local grocery store, parents who still remember my own kids and ask after them. Some police officers I have known through their community projects for years! When we leave the bubble they will probably still be here, but I wouldn't see them any more. The scenery will be different. I will not have the points of reference I had. It made me somewhat anxious and sad. And made me realize that I am not ready to move yet, no matter how I nudge the hubby. I think we're content for now. But I still hate to clean.
There was a woman with a largish bandage on her brow, a guy with a baseball hat pulled down to his wire framed glasses, a portly couple both wearing matching flannel shirts. In one corner of the room I spied a woman whose children attended nursery school with my oldest. Wow! I hadn't seen her in years! And in another corner of the room was a woman who used to live down the street from us. She still looked the same. And after the class when we hugged, she said I looked the same, too.
And I got to thinking...retirement, growing older...usually means moving out of the family home you've occupied for a number of years. I frequently lament to hubby that our house is too big! I can't keep it clean anymore. I have other things I like to do with my time. Well, if I'm honest, I've always had other things I've wanted to do besides clean; but it seems more of an onerous task these days. And then I truly thought tonight about what it would mean to leave the bubble. There are people who are part of the scenery of our lives here. The old man and old lady who have walked a sucession of dogs through rain, sleet, snow and hurricanes. The guy with the gray ponytail who wears a trench coat in the dead of summer and frequently speaks out loud to himself. And all those parents of all those kids whom I have talked, laughed and cried with as their children marched through elementary then high school. I will see kids returned from college who remember me at the local grocery store, parents who still remember my own kids and ask after them. Some police officers I have known through their community projects for years! When we leave the bubble they will probably still be here, but I wouldn't see them any more. The scenery will be different. I will not have the points of reference I had. It made me somewhat anxious and sad. And made me realize that I am not ready to move yet, no matter how I nudge the hubby. I think we're content for now. But I still hate to clean.
Saturday, January 31, 2015
A Bird on the Porch is Worth...?
One of the quirks my hubby and I share is that we like to keep small white lights strung up all year. But not everywhere. Just over the front door. We have a roof over the front steps that has a hanging light in the ceiling, but it doesn't illuminate much. You can't really fit a larger light bulb in the fixture so the entry to the house always looks somewhat gloomy and ominous unless properly enhanced. Several years ago we put up these small lights around Christmas time and well, they just sort of stayed there. In the bubble, this is probably a faux paux, but I really don't care, it looks better to hubby and I, so I guess the "critics" will just have to get used to the idea.
Anyway, the lights are just sort of strung up under the porch roof which arches up from one side to the other. They aren't closely connected to the roof, so they kind of look like starlight, in my whimsical observation. But because they aren't closely attached, there are gaps in the criss-crossing of the wires. I never particularly paid attention to this before, until I began noticing something when I would go out to get the paper this winter. In the dark of the morning, the aforementioned dingy hanging light automatically comes on when the storm door is opened. So when I go out at 6 am to retrieve the paper that never quite makes it to the front porch, the light comes on and I can see for a few moments as I scurry out and find the errant paper amongst the bushes or the ivy. In the few moments of light, I noticed that there were bird droppings around the front door. I looked up, but of course, I was looking at the small ledge directly over the door. Nothing there. I shrugged, figured some poor frozen bird used the ledge as a shelter and forgot about it. Until I began noticing that the droppings were increasing. I never saw a bird in the morning anywhere. But it had to be nesting or something there as the droppings were so evident. But I could never see one.
My husband was observing the same thing and he couldn't figure it out either. Until one early evening, right after dinner, he came out to the kitchen and asked me to follow him out to the front door. We have a semicircle of glass over the door which allows us to see the lights without opening the door. And sure enough, there on the criss-crossed wires was a bird fluffed up and holding onto the wires. It was out of the wind, rain, snow and whatever else Mother Nature threw at it. It was safe and warm and dry. Mystery solved. It kind of looks like a cardinal, only slightly bigger.
Of course, I have dreamed up myriads of stories about why its there and not in some tree somewhere, or even hiding out in the bushes with the rest of the birds. He's an outcast, he's got bad eating habits, he insulted the "head bird" and has been cast out and shunned for the winter. Anyway, I check to see if it is there from time to time and so far he is (I am calling it a he, but I'm really not sure of that--males of the cardinal species are usually brightly colored and this one is not particularly red). It's kind of like having a pet, only not really. And I really need to clean up the step under where it has been relieving itself. But it is sort of interesting to see it there, so close to the house, resting in the swaying wires of the small white lights. Waiting for the warm weather like the rest of us.
Anyway, the lights are just sort of strung up under the porch roof which arches up from one side to the other. They aren't closely connected to the roof, so they kind of look like starlight, in my whimsical observation. But because they aren't closely attached, there are gaps in the criss-crossing of the wires. I never particularly paid attention to this before, until I began noticing something when I would go out to get the paper this winter. In the dark of the morning, the aforementioned dingy hanging light automatically comes on when the storm door is opened. So when I go out at 6 am to retrieve the paper that never quite makes it to the front porch, the light comes on and I can see for a few moments as I scurry out and find the errant paper amongst the bushes or the ivy. In the few moments of light, I noticed that there were bird droppings around the front door. I looked up, but of course, I was looking at the small ledge directly over the door. Nothing there. I shrugged, figured some poor frozen bird used the ledge as a shelter and forgot about it. Until I began noticing that the droppings were increasing. I never saw a bird in the morning anywhere. But it had to be nesting or something there as the droppings were so evident. But I could never see one.
My husband was observing the same thing and he couldn't figure it out either. Until one early evening, right after dinner, he came out to the kitchen and asked me to follow him out to the front door. We have a semicircle of glass over the door which allows us to see the lights without opening the door. And sure enough, there on the criss-crossed wires was a bird fluffed up and holding onto the wires. It was out of the wind, rain, snow and whatever else Mother Nature threw at it. It was safe and warm and dry. Mystery solved. It kind of looks like a cardinal, only slightly bigger.
Of course, I have dreamed up myriads of stories about why its there and not in some tree somewhere, or even hiding out in the bushes with the rest of the birds. He's an outcast, he's got bad eating habits, he insulted the "head bird" and has been cast out and shunned for the winter. Anyway, I check to see if it is there from time to time and so far he is (I am calling it a he, but I'm really not sure of that--males of the cardinal species are usually brightly colored and this one is not particularly red). It's kind of like having a pet, only not really. And I really need to clean up the step under where it has been relieving itself. But it is sort of interesting to see it there, so close to the house, resting in the swaying wires of the small white lights. Waiting for the warm weather like the rest of us.
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